Third Age of the Sun: 2063
by UnnamedElement
Summary: Thranduil knew since the Last Alliance that Mordor would rise again. Now, Mithrandir is in his halls, asking for warriors for a quest into the south. His son Legolas, two warriors, and his head marchwarden join on a task they do not fully understand. A tale of adventure that tries the growing mistrust of the Woodland elves, and pushes all to reconsider, unfolds. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS
1. Chapter 1: Of Dorwinion and Merrymaking

Author's Note: This is my first published Lord of the Rings story. It is bookverse, and it is currently a work-in-progress. I will be posting updates twice a month. As always, I appreciate constructive criticism. I am still developing my voice for this genre-please read and review.

Disclaimer: Middle-earth belongs rightfully to JRR Tolkien.

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 **Chapter 1: Of Dorwinion and Merrymaking**

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 _"But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again."_

 _-Unfinished Tales, Part 2: The 2nd Age, "Appendix B, The Sindarin Princes Of The Silvan Elves"_

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 **2063, Third Age of the Sun**  
 **North of Emyn Duir, South of the Elvenking's Halls**

Legolas frowned as he looked again down the table to Mithrandir, who was seated to the left of the Elvenking at the very corner of the spread. Legolas himself sat three chairs across from and to the right of Mithrandir, two advisors between them. It had been at least a century since Legolas had seen Mithrandir in the Greenwood, and his father had not been pleased with Mithrandir's behavior in the interim and had made that well known. It seemed to Legolas that Mithrandir now studiously avoided Legolas' eyes whenever he considered him from his seat, while fully engaging with his father. To say Legolas, who admired the Istar, was confused by this behavior would be an understatement.

Legolas quit frowning and took a sip from his cup, sitting back in his chair as talk floated around him, and he passed on several bowls of greens and venison to the advisor to his right as he listened. It was a beautiful evening for merrymaking, and he was happy to be beneath the trees _with_ kin rather than in the trees _defending_ his kin, but he was having difficulty concentrating, nonetheless. So much had changed in the centuries since Legolas had begun working with the marchwardens and border patrols of Mirkwood, and to be home and sat in a clearing with lanterns all about and music in the warm summer air was almost unnerving. Legolas shivered in surprise as a breeze ruffled the trees and touched his bare arms, and he dropped a hand to his waist unconsciously to feel for his knife-he knew he had become too vigilant.

The advisor to Legolas' right raised a thick eyebrow at him as he felt Legolas's elbow brush his own while patting for his knife, and he nodded his chin toward the head of the table subtly with an admonishing "Pay attention, Legolas," before turning his own attention back to his king. Legolas quickly pulled his hand away from the reassuring presence of the blade and turned back toward his father; he flattened the embroidery on the sleeveless grey blouse he wore and tried to look as respectful as possible, and as if he had been listening to the entire conversation about that particular vintage of Dorwinion.

It was in that moment that Mithrandir finally caught Legolas' gaze and held it. "And what do you think, Greenleaf?"

Legolas flushed. He had not at all been paying attention, and Mithrandir definitely knew it. "What do I think?" he repeated back to him.

"Yes," Mithrandir said, lifting his glass and inclining his head to Legolas.

"I think that…" Legolas did not have an opinion on the wine, he realized. "Ai, I do not know."

Thranduil laughed and clapped Mithrandir on the shoulder. "What I think, Mithrandir, is that Legolas' attention has not been with us, for otherwise he would certainly have an opinion on the matter, as he has on everything."

Legolas flushed again, but did not look away from his father.

"Ah," said Mithrandir, "well, having opinions is certainly a trait of your line, Thranduil. You cannot blame him."

"I am sorry for my inattentiveness to you as our guest, Mithrandir," Legolas bowed his head slightly.

This time Mithrandir laughed. "You do not need to apologize for being yet young and, by the looks of it, tired! And besides, Legolas, you were also given the joy of being a Wood-elf, a distraction your father may never fully understand, and that is no fault of your own." He winked at Legolas and Legolas only stared back, not quite sure how to respond.

In that moment, an elf in a fitted rust-colored tunic flitted up to the table, bowing deeply. "My king," she said. Thranduil nodded to her to continue. "Would that I could borrow your son for the evening?"

Legolas swirled the wine around in his cup, trying to look disinterested. "For the evening, captain? After you have just returned him from his duties?"

"Not the whole evening, my king. Just long enough for some of our unit to celebrate together, for we are all hale."

Thranduil nodded. "That is well then, Lostariel. Legolas, you may leave."

Legolas pushed his chair back gently and stood bowing to those at the table. "My lords, Mithrandir."

Lostariel had now bounded over to him and clapped him on the shoulder, leaning close into his ear. "Enough of that." She picked up his wine cup and tugged on the braid that lay down his back. "Now take the last of this and we may be off."

Legolas would not argue with a command from a higher ranked officer, and he finished the cup in one deep gulp. Lostariel took the cup back from him and placed it on the table, grabbing him by the upper arm and pulling him away, laughingly.

"I have decided it is a good vintage, Mithrandir!" Legolas called over his shoulder, before Lostariel had tugged him into a dance in the middle of the clearing among many other elves and some from their own company. Then their faces were lost to Thranduil and the others in a swirl of laughter and many voices raised in song.

Mithrandir looked at Thranduil and raised an eyebrow.

"He is not like his brother," Thranduil said carefully.

"You mean, he is not a diplomat," Mithrandir supplied.

The advisor who had been beside Legolas sniffed. "He is not. There is a reason he works in the woods."

"The woods need diplomats, too, Master Thelion. And most diplomats are trained, not born. Legolas may serve you yet."

"Let us hope so," said Thranduil, turning back to the wine.

"He wonders, yet, why you do not speak to him of my visit, and why you have not included him in your chambers today while we had council," Mithrandir said.

"Legolas wonders this?" Thranduil asked.

"I sense that he is confused."

Thelion sniffed again and laughed, as if to say _that is not unsual_ ; Thranduil steadfastly ignored this.

"You did not request his presence," said Thranduil. "It is not customary for Legolas to be involved in non-strategic meetings.

"Oh?" Mithrandir asked. "Does not the darkness that you remember so well and that your people fear involve your armies and strategicians? Your trainers and your councilman?"

Thranduil was weary. "Mithrandir, I shall take away your wine. Give the child a day to recover. Give his company some rest."

"Tonight they rest—or celebrate, as it is more likely they will choose to do as woodelves on this clear night! But tomorrow we call the head marchwarden to your chambers, and she will bring whomever she wishes to include in my request."

"Lostariel will certainly bring Legolas, and her second, which will deprive our defense of two commanders," said Thelion.

"Lostariel is captain of her own guard. She may do as she wishes," Thranduil said simply, and poured another glass of wine for Mithrandir.

Thranduil did not want to speak anymore of the darkness that pressed in on his land. Instead, he reached for a carved bowl filled with small apples and sliced pieces of one off thinly, looking out over the head of Thelion to seek his son's face. Thranduil's eyes found Legolas on the other side of the clearing, standing now with a childhood friend, hands on his hips and lithe body leaned back and laughing. He watched his oldest son stride into the clearing from the path that followed the Forest River to step behind Legolas discreetly. He grabbed Legolas around the waist from behind, spinning him around and clasping his shoulders, and Thranduil heard Legolas' voice rise in joy. It had been too long since the two brothers had spent any time together outside of council chambers, for these days were dark indeed.

Thranduil sighed. There was no escaping thoughts of the darkness this evening, and he looked up to the stars for strength. Thranduil noted that Mithrandir was watching him closely, so he put down the knife with which he had cut the apple, and instead picked up his wine, for a toast.

"To lighter days," the Elvenking said, and the table murmured its assent as the party continued around them.

"Yes," said Mithrandir, lifting the glass to his lips. "That is precisely what I am hoping for."


	2. Chapter 2: The Company Selected

Author's note: Thank you for your time. I hope you are enjoying thus far, and please review. Next chapter, the elves meet with Mithrindir and discover the nature of their quest, and the company thereafter begins their journey south.

Disclaimer: Do not own.

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 **Chapter Two: The Company Selected**

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" _The Silvan Elves were hardy and valiant, but ill-equipped with armour or weapons in comparison with the Eldar of the West; also they were independent, and not disposed to place themselves under the supreme command of Gil-galad. Their losses [during the War of the Last Alliance] were thus more grievous than they need have been, even in that terrible war. Malgalad and more than half his following perished in the great battle of the Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into the Dead Marshes. Oropher was slain in the first assault upon Mordor, rushing forward at the head of his most doughty warriors before Gil-galad had given the signal for the advance."_

 _–Unfinished Tales, The History of Galadriel and Celeborn_

* * *

Lostariel quickly read the missive and refolded the paper, jerking her head for the messenger to follow her into her chambers. "I will send you with two messages, Eminerdhyn."

Lostariel walked to her table and pushed aside a stack of maps and books, rummaging for a quill and finding a pot of ink under a scarf she had discarded on the desk the previous week. The table was the only part of her room she allowed to become disorganized. She tore a scrap piece of parchment in half and wrote a note on one of the pieces.

 _Ithildim and Legolas,_

 _I am requesting your company on a mission directed by Mithrandir and approved by our King. Please report to the council room one hour after midday. Expect to leave within a fortnight. I predict we will be back in time for August patrols—do not become too excited._

 _Your captain,_

 _Lostariel_

She dipped her quill again and began on the second note.

 _Captain Amonhir,_

 _As my second in command, I request your presence in leading an excursion with Mithrandir toward Dol Goldur. I have asked Legolas and Ithildim to come as our company. Should you have objections to this selection of warriors please meet me in the Great Hall at midday. We report to the council room one hour thereafter._

 _Your captain,_

 _Lostariel_

Lostariel blew on the ink of Amonhir's note and then folded the papers. She scrawled the names on the exposed sides before returning to the messenger.

"Deliver this one," she said, "to whomever you encounter first. I suggest checking the prince's rooms, or the training fields."

The messenger nodded and left.

Lostariel assumed that the messenger would find Ithildim and Legolas together, or that one would know where the other was hidden away. When Lostariel had departed from the merrymaking the previous evening, the two had lain head-to-head on the edge of the clearing—Legolas' legs propped on a young beech's trunk so that he was an L shape—and each had their arms folded across their chests and their eyes sparkled darkly as they considered the stars; Ithildim's loose dark hair hid Legolas' honeyed braid so that just the crown of his head glinted gold in the lanterns, and they talked in low conspiratorial voices that dropped off when any of their elders passed. She heard them giggle like children, as she had seen them do centuries before, when they were not warriors and could not yet even string their own bows.

Legolas and Ithildim made a fearsome team, and if she were to take any of her company alone into battle, she would have it be the two of them, but only together, for they read each other's movements as if they were the same, and their temperaments well balanced one another. The two had four hours to find each other, and they were off duty; she was sure that today the messenger had enough to do. Besides, a little healthy panic incited by the warriors' captain or king was only a chance, in her opinion, to practice controlling their adrenaline.

Lostariel recapped the ink and closed the buttons at the wrists of her sleeves. She slipped a long knife into her belt and tucked a shorter one into the slit on the outside of her left armguard, and slung her bow and quiver across her shoulder as she shut and secured the door behind her. She would see her parents—who lived beyond the safety of the Elvenking's walls—before she left again, and Lostariel did not travel anywhere outside the hall light on weapons.

* * *

Legolas dropped his knife to his side as he saw the messenger clad in grey run towards him on the field. He had a few moments before the messenger reached him, so he clamped the knife between his teeth to secure his hair. He had been running forms for half an hour and was markedly disheveled.

"My lord," said the messenger with a nod, as he stopped before Legolas.

Legolas slipped the knife into his belt and nodded back, "Sir."

"I have a message from your captain of which you are also to inform Ithildim Anarion."

He held out the paper for Legolas to take. Legolas took it and read it quickly; he felt his brow crease and was quiet.

"Do you require a response, Prince Legolas?"

"No, thank you, Eminerdhyn. You may go."

The messenger nodded again and turned, running back to the gates, which opened before him when he raised an arm.

Legolas picked his linen overshirt up off the ground and pulled it over his head, straightening his braid from beneath the collar and pulling the hem of the shirt under and through his belt so that it hung down over his thighs. He turned south away from the gates, and frowned at the tree-line.

If Mithrandir wanted to take Woodelves for a mission, there were only a few places he could be going, otherwise it would be more prudent to enlist a company of elves from Imladris or Lothlorien, who most considered less dangerous and less isolated from outside realms than Thranduil's folk. Furthermore, neither he nor Ithildim had learned well the Westron, for they had not yet had great reason to do so. As his father's nearest advisor Thelion reminded him frequently, he was not a diplomat. No, Legolas reasoned to himself, they were travelling somewhere that he and Ithildim would not be a liability for their language should they be separated, somewhere they could pass with speaking Sindarin or Silvan or a child's Westron—they would not be travelling out of the Greenwood, and probably not, he thought darkly, to anywhere green.

Legolas pivoted back toward the gates and took off in a run, raising his right arm fiercely when he neared the gates so that the doors burst inward with an explosive groan. Legolas thought Ithildim had best be in his rooms or the dining hall—he wanted to find him swiftly, and he felt impatient.

* * *

Lostariel and Amonhir sat across from one another at a table in the furthest corner of the Great Hall. They shared a loaf of bread and soup.

"Legolas is a Silvan Oropher—you think this choice wise?"

Lostariel pulled a bowl of soup toward her and raised an eyebrow at Amonhir. "You too are Silvan, Amonhir. You do not object to Legolas being in our patrol company."

"Of course not! He is a skilled warrior and planner, and the king's son, and there are ten other warriors to keep his impulses in line. Legolas is unpredictable."

"And he has worked diligently to improve his temperament over the past two centuries, and it has not been unrewarded. Legolas is unpredictable, but he is not proud, nor extraordinarily distrustful; he is not Oropher."

"Well, I did not mean to imply that I expect him to singlehandedly storm a legion of Morgoth and have the rest of us thus slaughtered," Amonhir sighed, ripping the end off a loaf of bread and dropping it back onto the cutting board without ceremony.

"But it is what you implied. You sound almost treasonous." Lostariel looked distastefully at the chunk of bread that he now dipped in his soup. "You know we have knives; you do not have to be a heathen."

"I weary of knives. And it is not treason if it is spoken in truth."

"Aye," Lostariel nodded. "But you should not impose blame from three millennia past onto one who does not deserve it, and should give credit where credit is due."

Amonhir swallowed a bite of bread. "Legolas may come. Ithildim works well with him, and there is not another archer I would want at my back outside Dol Goldur."

"So your qualms are with Legolas' personality, as his captain, and not with his skill?" Lostariel asked. She respected Amonhir, but had always found his perspectives perplexing—perhaps it was why he had become her second.

Amonhir nodded. "Truly, but disposition does affect skill. He could be a captain by now, but he is not. Because on the battlefield, he reacts too slowly or too quickly; he is either too rash, or too considerate. Legolas is ruled by his emotions, all rooted deep and stubborn and so encompassing in the moment, no matter how quickly they change by the minute.

"But Ithildim is not so; he has grown as a result of his companionship with Legolas, and his emotional growth has filled out his considerable skills—he will be a captain first. And without Ithildim to help Legolas learn consistency, Legolas may become stagnant and frustrated and not become as mighty as he could."

Lostariel considered Amonhir thoughtfully, spooning soup into her mouth as she watched his face. "You have not trained Legolas as long as I have. But this is yet a conversation for another day. I am glad you will have Ithildim and Legolas join us; it will at least make the journey South more amusing."

Amonhir feigned a shudder. "Sometimes I wonder if they have the gift of reading one another's minds."

Lostariel laughed. "For our sake, I certainly hope not."


	3. Chapter 3: Adventure, Quest, Mission

Author's note: I have been asked by several people if this story will include romance. It will not, though it will focus significantly on relationship-building between characters. I have had an interesting time wrangling characterizations in this story, inventing some history of my own for Mirkwood-don't we all?- and wrestling with my understanding of Middle-earth's timeline during the Second and Third ages into something linear. Should there be any notable mistakes, _please_ let me know. Thank you for your continued dedication to this tale, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Do not own.

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 **Chapter 3: Mithrandir and Maps**

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 _"Farewell! O Elvenking!" said Gandalf. "Merry be the greenwood, while the world is yet young! And merry be all your folk!"_

 _"Farewell! O Gandalf!" said the king. "May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected! The oftener you appear in my halls the better shall I be pleased!"_

 _-The Hobbit, Chapter 18: The Return Journey_

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Mithrandir sat at the end of the council table, in what he knew to be King Thranduil's chair. Perhaps sitting there was rude, but the Elvenking was not yet present, nor was anyone else. It often helped Mithrandir to see things exactly from a leader's perspective, besides. Mithrandir folded his hands in front of him and waited, and then took off his hat and tossed it a few feet so it landed beneath a tapestry by the back wall, and then he leaned back in the large chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was seldom early, but Thranduil's elves were never late, so he closed his eyes and waited patiently for the room to fill.

Legolas and the young elf Mithrandir had seen him watching the stars with the night before were the first to arrive. They entered the room together, laughing—clad in matching silver greens and muted browns, hair pulled from their faces by loose braids so it lay down their backs, and no weapons upon them at all. The dark-haired elf shoved Legolas' shoulder lightly and Legolas danced away from the offense, but they both fell silent and still when they saw the wizard leaned back in the Elvenking's chair at the head of the room. Immediately, Legolas stepped back to his friend's side and their legs spread to shoulder-width, each set of hands falling to clapse before their bodies. They stood there shoulder to shoulder in silence, and bowed their heads to Mithrandir, eyes cast to the ground in deference.

Mithrandir regarded their vulnerable positions for a moment in silence, too, and then laughed loudly. The Greenwood, Mithrandir thought, had certainly created an interesting breed of the Eldar. The two young warriors started at his abrupt joyfulness.

"Legolas," Mithrandir said, standing and pushing the Elvenking's chair back with a sound like a tree cracking in a storm. He rounded the corner of the table and leaned across the narrow edge of it toward the door where Legolas and his friend now stood regarding him, two pairs of wide, light eyes lifted to meet the Istar's gaze. "It is good to see you this day. I wondered if you would be among those selected by the marchwarden to accompany me on this adventure."

"Adventure?" asked the elf to Legolas' left, and Legolas looked at him sharply for speaking out of term.

Mithrandir smiled. "Yes, hmm, indeed. Adventure, quest, mission. Are they not the same to you?"

The young elf said nothing but held the wizard's gaze. Mithrandir turned again to Legolas. "And who is this adventurous friend who will be accompanying us?"

"Mithrandir, this is Ithildim Anarion," said Legolas, letting his hands unclapse from his front and fall loosely to his sides; Mithrandir noted that as Legolas unclapsed his hands, Ithildim unconsciously did the same, and so they stood now differently than they did before, but with movements linked like twins. "We have trained together since we were young and now mark each other during patrols."

"Ah, that explains it," said Mithrandir, and Legolas frowned in confusion. "You have known each other for a very long time," he said simply, as if that answered Legolas' unspoken question.

Legolas said nothing in response and watched the wizard closely as he continued speaking to Ithildim.

"Well, it is good to meet you, Ithildim. Your father is a skilled healer, if I remember him well from my last visit, and your mother is a baker," Mithrandir stated.

Ithildim tilted his head to the side and looked sidelong at Legolas. "Yes," he said. "Well met, Mithrandir."

"I should hope so," said Mithrandir. "Here!" he exclaimed. "I need young help to hoist some of these maps out of the desks and lay them out on the table. We have much to cover today."

Mithrandir did not really need help opening desk drawers, but young elves made him feel quite old. Elrond and Celebrian's children, too, made him feel that way, but they were not wood-elves and were protected in Imladris, and seemed much calmer. It was better, Mithrandir thought, to have help from these two and make them feel useful, so they did not flitter away.

"Where are we going?" Legolas asked, finally dropping his poise and walking to meet Gandalf at the table, lifting a section of it from the edge so that it opened at a hinge in the middle. Ithildim walked up beside Legolas and began flipping through maps and charts with interest. Mithrandir joined them and peered over Ithildim's arms as he rummaged in the table; Legolas had by then balanced the surface on the back of his head so that he could reach with one hand into the table, too.

"You are both very eager," said Mithrandir, watching as Ithildim bumped into Legolas while reaching for a scroll against the far side of the drawer; Legolas sighed as the braid falling from his crown bunched and stuck in the wood's grain when he was jostled. Mithrandir watched with mirth as Legolas unsurreptitiously tread on Ithildim's foot with his light shoe and Ithildim hissed lightly in return.

"You will find out where we are going soon enough," Mithrandir said. "I need that one," he said, tapping Ithildim on the arm as he touched a wide scroll.

"This one?" Ithildim asked, his fingers having already begun to unwind a different map.

"No, _that_ one," said Mithrandir.

Legolas pulled his head out from under the hinged table and held it up now with straightened arms so more light could reach inside, several strands of his hair still stuck to the wood grain and table latch so that his braid elevated from the rest of his hair at an odd angle. It was at this moment that the door behind them swung inward and Ithildim pulled himself out of the table, the correct scroll clutched in his hand, and both he and Legolas turned very quickly to see who had entered.

"Ai," Legolas whispered, as the hair that had hung like honey-dipped spider silk from the table broke as he shifted, and his braid whipped over his shoulder to hit him in the face.

"Good afternoon, brother," said Lumornon, who was the crown prince of the Greenwood and Legolas' older brother. Thelion stood at Lumornon's shoulder and Mithrandir saw him cut his eyes to Legolas with both a smirk and true amusement on his face. "It seems like you and Ithildim have already begun an exciting day."

"We have," said Ithildim, and Legolas lowered the table shut, patting down his hair.

"They are very useful," said Mithrandir, "and entertaining."

"Aren't they?" said Thelion, brown robes sweeping as he walked to his seat to at the right corner of the Elvenking's chair near the head of the table. "And yet I am repeatedly told they are one of our most skilled teams while in the field."

"And out of it," said Lumornon, tucking a strand of deep brown hair behind his ear and patting Legolas on the shoulder as he passed. He bowed to Mithrandir, then nodded to Thelion, raised a dark eyebrow, and said, "We perhaps do not give them enough credit at defense council."

"Don't we?" said Thelion.

"Your rhetorical questions today amuse me almost as much as they!" said Lumornon, winking at his brother and Ithildim, who both flushed. "Go ahead and continue helping Mithrandir. We shall sit here and discuss very important matters of trade; we have an exciting new contract to draft up for the Galadhrim."

Lumornon winked again and Mithrandir watched as Legolas and Ithildim looked back at him evenly without expression, Legolas negotiating the complicated boundaries between commander and kin. Legolas composed himself, Ithildim clasped his hands before his body, and then he and Legolas both nodded—all professional focus—and turned expectantly back to Mithrandir. He smiled at them.

"Come now," Mithrandir said, waving a hand toward Lumornon and Thelion as if to dismiss them, focusing all his attention on Legolas and Ithildim. "Let us gather the rest of what I need."

And so Mithrandir spent the next few minutes with the young elves asking for specific maps of the forest, notations of migration patterns, charts tracking the weather throughout the centuries, until there were several stacks of sprawling parchment spread across the surface of the table, and Ithildim balanced ten scrolls in his arms. As Thranduil, the head marchwarden Lostariel, and her second filed in with more defense councilors, Mithrandir directed Legolas and Ithildim to pin the maps flat onto the table. Mithrandir then sent Legolas back to his guest chambers to retrieve a collection of letters he had forgotten to bring to the councilroom. Ithildim watched Legolas turn the corner of the room like a breeze, and he fell silently into place at the door, hands in front of his body, watching everyone settle at the table while he waited for his patrol partner to return.

The door swung inward again after only a few minutes, and Legolas was back, walking to Mithrandir's seat at the table by Thranduil with a heavy canvas bag in his arms; Ithildim had fallen into step beside Legolas as soon as the door opened, and they both stood now beside the wizard with the bag of letters, waiting there until Thranduil dismissed them to their seats at the far end of the table. Mithrandir almost laughed again—being under Thranduil's command was certainly _not_ a laugh.

"So," said Thranduil, whose golden hair was braided back from his face around his wooden crown, and threaded with deep red summer flowers. "We are gathered here today after our own reconaissance and at Mithrandir's request, to address the evil bleeding out of the South and creeping like mist toward our halls. Already are our kinsman in villages outside these walls feeling its draining power, and our patrols in the north have suffered increased stress, as well. Mithrandir has knowledge that we do not, and we are not so proud as protectors of the Greenwood to turn away this help. So I defer now, respectfully and with gratefulness for his visit, to Mithrandir for his wisdom, and his guidance."

Thranduil nodded imperceptibly to Mithrandir—yellow gems gleaming like summer sunlight in a necklace at Thranduil's throat—who stood, shook his robes back from his hands, and began.


	4. Ch 4: Conflict, or a Brief Intermission

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the delay in posting this update. I am writing several stories at once, and long ago wrote the climax and end to this tale before I had even fully hashed out the beginning. Please feel free to shoot me a message to discuss any remaining hashing, or consider leaving a review. (It helps to know folks are reading and actively engaged in the telling—especially when I have several other story-irons in the fire that are fighting one another, as well as a demanding job—since, in my imagination, this tale has already been satisfactorily resolved. I am ashamed to admit how easy it is for me to lose steam!)

Additionally, I would like to note an error in Chapter Two. Amonhir says: "I did not mean to imply that I expect [Legolas] to singlehandedly storm a legion of Morgoth and have the rest of us thus slaughtered," and it should _very definitely_ read instead "storm a legion of Sauron."

Anyway, later this month—in the next chapter—our characters will _finally_ enter the woods, and we will, quite literally, stumble into the last half of their story.

 **Disclaimer:** Do not own.

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Conflict, or a Brief Intermission**

* * *

" _Emissaries they were from Lords of the West, the Valar, who still took counsel for the governance of Middle-earth, and when the shadow of Sauron began first to stir again took this means of resisting him. … And this the Valar did, desiring to amend the errors of old, especially that they had attempted to guard and seclude the Eldar by their own might and glory fully revealed; whereas now their emissaries were forbidden to reveal themselves in forms of majesty, or to seek to rule the wills of Men and Elves by open display of power, but coming in shapes weak and humble were bidden to advise and persuade Men and Elves to good, and to seek to unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron, should he come again, would endeavour to dominate and corrupt."_

 _–a note on the Wizards,_ ( _from_ _Unfinished Tales,_ _Part Four, Chapter Two: The Istari)_

* * *

Mithrandir did not bring as much information to Thranduil's folk as they would have liked, but he called the evil at Dol Goldur the Necromancer, and so the elves at least gave name to that growing darkness.

Legolas and Ithildim alone seemed unfazed by the lack of information returned to their questions, and they delivered their scouting reports dutifully and without hesitation when called upon, remaining calm and competent even when met with critical questions from Thranduil or excoriations by a defense advisor. They were perhaps too young, Amonhir thought, to understand the danger inherent to such lack of preparedness as Mithrandir's quest would require of them; Legolas and Ithildim had seldom been involved in missions that their improvisation could not salvage.

Lostariel, on the otherhand, was particularly displeased with the meager information Mithrandir was able to provide. When Thranduil shooed Legolas and Ithildim out of the room without even a facsimile of patience and then dismissed all advisors but Thelion with abruptness, it became clear that Thranduil too would have words with Mithrandir—words that he would not want noted by his council's secretary in the Greenwood's records.

Lostariel saw Legolas glance over his shoulder to his brother and cock his head as he and Ithildim pushed open the great door to exit. If Lostariel had not spent so much time with Legolas in the field and in training, she would not know what the look meant; but she _had_ spent that time with him, and she _did_ know—it was a warning.

Lumornon met Legolas' eyes—which squinted slightly as he glanced from his brother to his father, who seemed to vibrate from crown to boot though his face was impassive—and then Lumornon nodded. Legolas ducked his head respectfully and turned back to the door, which was now fully open, and he and Ithildim disappeared around the frame like mists off the river.

Lostariel knew that look was also a request for Lumornon to steady their father and king with Lumornon's notoriously even keel and deliberate sensibility. She looked at Lumornon assessingly to measure his intent and thus plan her own approach before the conversation began.

Lumornon's eyes were downcast as she observed, looking over some of the letters Mithrandir had earlier passed around, but then he looked up unexpectedly and smiled at her. Lostariel raised her eyebrows, and then he dropped his smile and looked back at her evenly, every bit the crown prince. A moment later he cut a glance to Thranduil and then looked back to Lostariel, before rolling his eyes and shrugging, and in that moment he looked so much to her like Legolas, despite all their marked differences, that she almost frowned in surprise.

Thelion looked on disapprovingly; Lumornon looked away from the Marchwarden and cleared his throat.

When the last of the defense advisors had finally collected their notes and filed out of the room, and the door swung shut behind them, Thranduil pushed his chair back and stood from his seat. His light red robe fell open to reveal the simple white tunic and grey leggings hidden beneath, and for a moment Thranduil said nothing; he simply stood and stared squarely down at the wizard seated beside him. The Elvenking finally passed a hand over his face before dropping both hands to his hips and glowering at Mithrandir.

"Confound it, Mithrandir! This is an abuse of trust!" Thranduil exclaimed. "You have no more idea of what is happening in my father's old halls than I, and you had me commit my Marchwarden and her choice of warriors to your folly mission prematurely, ere I was enlightened to the directionless nature of your request!"

Mithrandir crossed his arms in front of him and considered Thranduil's ire.

"Mayhap this is an accurate assessment, mayhap not," the wizard said. "But I will still go into Dol Goldur alone, and need only your elves to get me there."

"And what of Radagast the Brown, so nearby Dol Goldur at his Rhosgobel," Thanduil countered. "Why not him? You are well-known to one another."

"Well-known indeed!" Mithrandir laughed, but then dropped his voice and continued absently. "But Radagast is too gentle for this task, though we may in fact convene with him on our return trip. For now, though, he trusts too much his trees, and is too caught up in the woods' newest despair."

Lumornon predicted his father's reaction before Thranduil had even begun to reply, and so he sat back with some relish to watch. Legolas expected Lumornon to mediate the situation and temper his father's obviously displeasure, and Lumornon was indeed a fine diplomat. But Lumornon was first and foremost a son and a brother, and so Lumornon expected first to observe some harmless amusement between his father and the wizard—preferably at his younger brother's expense—ere it came truly to blows.

"And my youngest son is _not_ too gentle for this task?" the Elvenking rejoined, as expected. "He has barely quit building forts in the forest himself—he and Ithildim still play among the trees' branches of an evening. They are _wood-elves_ , Mithrandir! To go so far south with so little reconnaissance? They are too young and single-minded _themselves_!"

Lostariel frowned and opened her mouth to address the Elvenking's misled comment, for she had had Legolas and Ithildim under her command for the last five centuries, but then closed it again. Instead, Lostariel crossed her hands over her chest and glanced to Lumornon, who was considering his father with his head tilted to one side, with his hands folded neatly across the pile of letters in front of him, and with a ghost of a smile on his lips. Amonhir shifted in his own seat and his brows lowered, for he too was a wood-elf—though nearly the same age as Thranduil—and he did not appreciate his King's thoughtless allusion to Silvan disposition. Besides, Amonhir knew though Legolas and Ithildim were young and eager and perhaps yet naïve, that the two friends were anything but gentle, except perhaps in their shared humor.

Mithrandir was silent for several long moments and looked Thranduil for a long time eye to eye.

"You have become more wary of your sons' actions since your family was sundered," Mithrandir finally stated.

The Elvenking looked affronted, and he drew a startlingly long and shallow breath.

"And thus you continue to underestimate these elves' abilities, for they were born into this darkness and know it well. Besides, I need only to get close enough to the fortress to assess the darkness, not mount a full-fledged attack against the Necromancer," Mithrandir continued. "No harm, therefore, will come to your young warriors—that I foresee—outside of their own foolishness."

Mithrandir directed his next question to Amonhir and Lostariel. "Your warriors are capable, are they not, Captains?"

"Aye, Mithrandir," they both said, not looking at their king.

Thranduil cut his eyes toward his head Marchwarden and her second, and then turned from Mithrandir in a sweep of flapping red robes. He stalked the length of the room before turning sharply on the balls of his feet at the far end of the table. The Elvenking placed his hands on its peak, and his long fingers gripped the table's hinges.

"And now you dare call my son a fool," Thranduil hissed quietly, his golden hair falling from behind his crown's hold to swing about his face.

Lumornon rose from his seat and strode to his father's side. He slipped a hand beneath his father's hair to clench the the Elvenking's shoulder, and he felt the spasm of taught and burdened muscles jerk beneath the touch.

"I only imply that youthfulness may illicit foolishness, Thranduil,"said Mithrandir, "and acknowledge the tendency to fervor that Greenleaf no doubt inherits by your example."

Lostariel raised an eyebrow at Amonhir as he grinned, and Thelion sniffed loudly—had he been any less skilled in diplomacy he might even have laughed. Though he maybe did not realize it himself, Thranduil did not need Thelion to mediate his interactions with Mithrandir—Thelion thought it best the Elvenking meddle through matters with the Istar himself.

Mithrandir continued as if he had not noticed the subtle movements around the table.

"Legolas and Ithildim are soldiers in the King's Army, and they will follow their Captain's wishes, just as any soldier of yours would, and so," he said with a shrug, "you will have to allow it, though I cannot command you. Your people love their forest, and their free wills go with them in defending it."

Lumornon pulled out the chair beside his father and pushed him into it gently by the shoulder. Thranduil allowed his son to do so, and absentmindedly folded his hands in front of him, his eyes for a moment distant. Lumornon bent to his king and father's shoulder and spoke into his ear.

"Highlight your wisdom by your actions, my King," Lumornon said quietly.

The Elvenking looked up for a moment at his eldest son. Eventually, Thranduil threw up his hands and then let a fist fall onto the slanted table.

"A plague on the stiff necks of wizards!" said Thranduil and looked squarely at Mithrandir. "You will bring back my company alive, or I will send you into the West myself."

Mithrandir chuckled.

"And if this Necromancer is born of something darker than sorcery," the Elvenking continued, as he shrugged off his oldest son's hand, "then you will rue leading my son so close to its evil. I will not lose another of my kin to the hands of Sauron's servants."

The room was silent for a moment, until Mithrandir stood and pushed back his chair, allowing its deep and screeching echo to reverberate around the room.

"Like I said, King Thranduil:" Mithrandir reminded, "the only harm that will befall your young warriors will be their own youthful doing, for I am not leading a charge."

Lumornon could feel the Elvenking relax beside him. Thranduil considered Mithrandir silently and evenly and the wizard held his gaze. Then he looked at Amonhir, Lostariel, and Thelion for several moments each before turning his attention back to Mithrandir.

The Elvenking crossed his long legs under the table and draped his hands onto the arms of the chair, so that his fingers dangled from the wrist loosely. Thranduil once again commanded the situation, and he looked at Mithrandir anew, and then he smiled.

"Well, great wizard," said the Elvenking. "You shall have your quest and your guides. I expect you all to meet with the young ones before you leave to make preparations; they know the paths surprisingly well, for those so fresh. You may leave, after that, as early as daybreak tomorrow."

Mithrandir nodded.

"Good then, Oh Elvenking," he said, and he smiled broadly, and his eyebrows rose like stony mountains on his brow as he did so. "I will take my leave and meet with your Wardens in the morning."

Mithrandir looked at Lostariel for her consent, and she nodded.

"Lumornon," Thranduil said, "with me. We will speak with Legolas and Ithildim presently."

"And, so, I bid you goodnight!" Mithrandir exclaimed and rose from the table.

Then they all walked from the room in single file; Lostariel pulled Amonhir to her side by his upper arm and she led him toward her rooms to organize affairs for while they were away.

"Lumornon, my prince!" Lostariel called over her shoulder. "Would you consult with us before you retire? We will be in my rooms."

"Aye," Lumornon called back, trailing the Elvenking as they went to search for his younger brother and friend, and they turned a corner at the far end of the corridor.

Thelion stood for a moment outside the door, considering the two pairs travelling in opposite directions, and then swept away to Thranduil's study.

Mithrandir watched them all go their separate ways and then huffed. Wood-elves! Perhaps he should have consulted first the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien; Galadriel sensed more truly the origin of his persuasive advice, and seemingly deferred to him, thus, more readily.

But, it was done, and he had contracted Thranduil.

Mithrandir turned back into the council room and folded again all the letters and parchments, before slipping them into the canvas bag Legolas had delivered him earlier. He shook it so its contents condensed and the latch could be shut.

Mithrandir bent to grab his hat from where he had thrown it earlier on the floor, and then pulled it roughly down to his ears.

He would ensure that he, the captains, and the young warriors would leave by the next night.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading thus far, and sharing in this story with me._


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